This House Is Not Home
by Stephantom
Summary: John House comes home after fighting in Vietnam. It's not the welcome he was expecting.


Disclaimer: None of the characters from the show "House, M.D." belong to me. They are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Universal Studios.

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It was John's first night back home after nearly a year in Vietnam. He was sitting at the head of the kitchen table, his wife on his right and his son on his left. He said grace, perfunctorily thanking God for their food and for keeping his family safe. Blythe smiled when he finished and added, "And for letting you come home safe. We've missed you."

John smiled and took a sip of his wine. He didn't feel entirely at home yet, but he was beginning to.

"Think you're going to have to go back again?"

John turned his head toward his son, who looked back at him blankly. His face looked older than John remembered it, though it had only been eight months since he'd last seen him. In that time, Greg had turned thirteen and nearly finished the seventh grade.

"Excuse me?"

Greg shrugged and looked down at his food, beginning to pick at it. "Well, if the war keeps dragging on for who knows how many more years," he said. "Mr. Doogan says there's no way we're going to win, so it's just going to keep going until the government figures that out."

John gritted his teeth. "And who is Mr. Doogan?"

"Oh, that's his social studies teacher," Blythe cut in. "Greg's been doing very well in social studies," she added, raising her eyebrows at Greg slightly. "Haven't you?"

Greg shrugged.

"Hm," said John. "Well, I'm glad you're doing well, although I hope you know better than to just go along with some liberal teacher's propaganda."

Greg smirked and looked like he was stifling a laugh. John narrowed his eyes.

"Is there something you want to say, son?"

Greg's eyebrows shot up in a look of alarmed innocence. John expected the usual response of "No, sir," and for a moment Greg looked as if that was what he was going to say. But then his face grew thoughtful and he said, "I don't know. If I'm not supposed to go along with liberal propaganda from teachers, I guess that means I can pick and choose which teachers I listen to, which is what I've always thought really, but... I seem to distinctly recall you telling me several times in the past that I _couldn't_ do that."

John narrowed his eyes. "Greg," he warned.

"You said teachers always know best and that no one likes a smartass. So you can see why I'm a little confused."

John stared at his son for a long moment. Greg didn't flinch. Finally John responded, "I expect you to behave yourself in class and give all of your teachers the respect their position calls for." He skewered a piece of his dinner with his fork, adding with a note of finality, "I also expect you not to be an idiot." He popped the forkful into his mouth.

Beside him, he heard Blythe shift and clear her throat.

"This is excellent, Blythe," he said then, turning to her.

"Oh, thank you, dear." She smiled.

He smiled in return and took another bite, relaxing.

Then Greg spoke up again, through a mouthful of food. "Well, I hope no one spits on you or calls you a baby-killer."

John slammed his fist down on the table and Blythe and Greg both snapped their heads in his direction, startled.

"That's enough," he ground out, staring hard at his son. "You will show some respect at this dinner table, or you will leave."

Greg swallowed and lowered his chin, glaring up at John in that sullen way he had. After a moment, he looked away, taking his fork to stab half-heartedly at his food, and muttered, "I'd rather eat by myself anyway."

"Not an option."

Greg snorted and rolled his eyes. John wondered how he thought that sort of a response was acceptable, or if he somehow thought John wouldn't notice.

"All right," he said, his voice stern and clipped. Greg glanced up at him, confused. "You can leave," John added as explanation, nodding toward the door to the living room.

Greg's brow furrowed but he pushed his chair away from the table, picking up his plate.

"No food outside of the kitchen." Greg froze for a moment, but he didn't look up. Then he stood and moved toward the door, his plate still in his hand.

"Hey!" John barked.

Greg stopped then, his back toward the table. Blythe glanced at John cautiously but he ignored her, watching his son intently. "Look at me!" The boy turned around slowly and looked at John, his posture and expression careless. "I said," John hissed, emphasizing each word, "no food outside of the kitchen."

Greg's eyes flitted to the plate in his hands and back to John. "Fine."

Then he let go.

Blythe and John both jumped up from their seats, and Blythe gasped loudly, but neither could do a thing to prevent it. The dish hit the floor with a loud crash, sending shards of porcelain skidding across the kitchen tiles; a few pees went rolling in various directions. In front of Greg's untied sneakers, a gooey heap of squash and casserole sat on top of what remained of the dish.

Greg met John's eyes, expressionless. "Oops," he said.

John gaped at him, a wordless fury building in his chest. He could feel his face burning with anger.

"Greg," Blythe whispered in astonishment. Greg didn't look at her, but his expression, a mask of defiance only seconds before, began to shift, as some fear crept into his features.

"OUT!" John shouted. He crossed from his place at the table to where Greg stood. "Out!" he shouted again.

Greg didn't hesitate this time but turned and left the kitchen quickly without another word. John followed him, dropping his hand heavily onto his son's shoulder and marching him through the living room. When he reached the front door, he flung it open and and turned to glare at Greg expectantly.

Greg looked up at him, wary. "You're kicking me out?" He sounded incredulous. "For breaking a plate?"

John set his jaw. "If you're going to behave like an animal, then you can go outside where animals belong. This house is for civilized people who can control themselves and sit through a meal without throwing a tantrum."

Greg looked away. "Guess that rules you out," he muttered.

A split second later, the back of John's hand connected with Greg's face with a loud crack.

Greg's eyes widened in surprise and John felt a wave of irritation. How could he be surprised?

He tightened his hold on the door and pointed with his other arm. "Outside," he repeated, his voice firm, controlled. Greg's jaw clenched and he blinked rapidly, turning and stomping out onto the front steps.

"And you stay out there until I come and get you," John added solemnly. Greg made no response. John stared at the back of the boy's head."Do you understand?" he asked. A simple "yes, sir," was all he wanted to hear, but Greg said nothing, simply walked away, dragging his feet, and sat down in the middle of the lawn, his back toward the house.

John watched him for several long seconds, before shutting the door quietly. He turned around to face the living room and let out a harsh sigh. He closed his eyes, wetting his dry lips with his tongue. He breathed in slowly through his nose, willing his anger away, and opened his eyes.

Blythe was sweeping up the glass shards when he came back into the kitchen. She looked up at him, a question in her eyes. John sighed again and sat back down at the table, shaking his head. "I sent him outside to cool off." Blythe nodded and joined him at the table.

"I don't know what got into him," she said softly. "He hasn't been like that."

"That was one of my mother's dishes."

Blythe nodded. "I know. I'm sorry this had to happen your first night back."

John just shook his head again. They finished their meal in silence.

After dinner, John sat in the tall armchair in the living room, a glass of scotch in one hand, watching the 11 news. Blythe had gone to bed a few hours ago, saying she was going to read for a while. Before leaving, she had glanced at the window anxiously.

"Don't you think you should be calling him back in soon?" she had asked. "It's getting dark."

"Not just yet," John replied, fiddling with his watch; it hadn't been working properly for the past several days. After a moment, he looked up, feeling Blythe's eyes on him. He saw her worried expression and smiled patiently. "He's fine, Blythe." She'd bit her lip briefly and then returned his smile slightly and nodded.

"Goodnight, dear," she'd said, patting his arm. "I'm," she started and then hesitated, her smile wavering. He looked at her expectantly -- _glad you're home_, he thought. "I've missed you," she said instead, and she left the room.

John, alone now, stood up and shut off the TV. He paused, standing in the middle of the living room, and considered the darkened window for a moment. Then he shut off the lights and headed down the hall toward his and Blythe's bedroom.


End file.
